


Running After the East Wind

by oopswrongcookie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awesome Molly Hooper, Community: sherlockbbc_fic, Lestrade-centric, Molly Hooper Appreciation, Multi, POV Lestrade, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-23 10:52:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9652784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oopswrongcookie/pseuds/oopswrongcookie
Summary: Stuff that happens after Series 4This could go on forever...-first draft-





	1. Chapter 1

Rosie went down for a nap more easily than Molly expected. John had asked her to sit with Rosie for the afternoon. The Watson house was in a state of flux with packing boxes piled as high as Molly’s nose. All day Saturday, she, Greg Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and Mike Stamford helped John sort and pack all the pieces of the life he and Mary were building before…

Molly swiped at the corner of her eyes. Boxes were labeled _Storage, Donate,_ and _221B_ , but the brown cardboard and Sellotape didn’t make the house feel any less like it belonged to Mary. The kettle, a few cups, and some other kitchen knick-knacks had yet to be packed. Molly took the tea tin from the cabinet and filled the kettle.

She considered making a pot of tea, expecting the John might be home at any moment, but he was out on some Sherlock business. John might not show up for days. At least once he returned to Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson would be about to watch Rosie and Molly wouldn’t feel compelled to rearrange her life to accommodate everyone else…and she wouldn’t have to make such an effort to avoid Sherlock.

Molly opened a tea bag and dropped it into the empty cup and waited for the water to heat. She knew why Sherlock had said what he had, but that didn’t make it any less cruel. Whenever she thought about it, Molly’s muscles tensed with anger, causing her shoulders to ache. She rolled them back and tipped her head from one side to the other, trying to relax. Molly knew she shouldn’t leave herself alone with her own thoughts.

The kettle whistled. Turning off the stove top, she poured the water over the tea bag and waited for it to steep. Just as she was about to take the bag out of the water and toss it in the rubbish-bin when the front bell rang.

“Probably the postman,” Molly said, weaving around the boxes stacked in the foyer. She pulled the front curtain aside and narrowed her eyes at the unwelcome guest. She unlocked the door and pulled it open, standing to block Sherlock from coming inside. “I just put Rosie down for a nap. I thought you and John were off on a case. Where is he and why are you here?”

Sherlock ruffled his hair, and shifted his weight from foot to foot, fidgeting. Molly hoped he wasn’t one something, but she knew with Sherlock, unless she made him pee in a cup or take a blood test, there was no real way to know.

“Hardly, but I’d take a new case over putting together a crib,” said Sherlock.

Molly snorted a laugh. The mental image of the Baker Street Boys struggling to assemble baby furniture was certainly amusing. Sherlock using a hammer when he needed a screw. Molly cleared her throat to regain her composure and squared her shoulders. She wanted to stay angry with Sherlock, he deserved it. “What do you need, Sherlock?”

“To tell you I’m sorry,” he said. Sherlock’s lips set into a frown, his brow furrowing slightly.

 _Damnit._ Molly’s heart dropped into her stomach. _No._ She shook her head, her high ponytail swishing back and forth across her bare neck. “Why now? Why not months ago?”

“Because I didn’t know how. May I come in?”

Molly moved aside so he could pass. She bolted the door. “Tea?” She frowned, catching herself being politer than he deserved.

“No, thank you.” He followed her into the kitchen and sat at the table.

Molly grabbed her tea from where she’d left it on the counter and squeezed the excess water from the bag before tossing it into the rubbish-bin. The tea was stronger than she would have liked it, but with a splash of milk and a teaspoon of sugar made it tolerable. She rolled her eyes at herself, figuring herself extremely upset if she were drinking bad tea. Pulling the chair across from Sherlock from under the table, she sat, and glared at him. “Start talking,” Molly said.

“I’m sure Lestrade told you why I did what I did to you.”

“There were no bombs, Sherlock. The police searched my building top to bottom. There was _nothing_.”

“I didn’t know that,” Sherlock sighed and tugged at the scarf around his neck.

“It still doesn’t excuse what you said. The lies you’ve told.” With her index finger, Molly turned the handle of the teacup one way and then the other, listening to the grating sound of ceramic against the wooden tabletop, like a clock moving too slow.

“When I said that to you, I was telling the truth,” Sherlock steepled his fingers, pressing them against his lips, and peering at her.

Molly might have gotten lost in his intelligent green-blue eyes once, but not now. Heat rose across her cheeks and she averted her gaze.  “When you said what?” The lump in her throat made talking difficult.

Sherlock placed his hands on the table and said, “I love you.”

His words hung in the air and Molly imagined if she’d reach out she might be able to grab them and toss them in the rubbish-bin. The ache spread through her chest, for a brilliant man, Sherlock was essentially clueless. “You’re unbelievable.” She sighed.

“You don’t understand.” Sherlock slapped the table, making it shake.

Molly jumped. “Rosie.”

They both stopped, listening for sounds from the nursery. After a moment, when Molly had decided the silence meant the baby was not awake, she turned back to Sherlock.

“You’re so bloody brilliant, please – explain it to us ordinary people,” said Molly.

“Oh, Molly,” Sherlock said, reaching up and running his hands through his black curls, tugging on the ends as if he were strong enough, he could straighten them. “You are far far from ordinary. When I said those things, I meant them. Eurus and her damnable problem. I didn’t know I had known that it was the truth until I realized that I may never be able to tell you, but –“ Sherlock took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“But what? Sherlock?”

“I love you, but I can’t love you like you want to be.”

“My God, is this a _let’s just be mates_ talk?” If the tea cup in front of her had not belonged to John, Molly would have thrown it at Sherlock’s head.

“You are important to me, important enough that I didn’t want you to die.” Sherlock stammered.

Guilt swept through Molly, like cold finger’s dragging through her gut. “I know. I’ve known for a long time. A very very long time. But, Sherlock, you keep giving me hope and then taking it away.”

“Molly, I’m saying this so you’ll know. I don’t want you to hurt anymore. I want you to be happy.”

“You are such an ass. Leave, please.” Molly went to the sink and poured the cold tea into the drain. The cup slipped from her grasp and broke against the side of the basin.  She swore. When she turned around, Sherlock was still sitting in the chair, staring at her. “I asked you to leave.”

“I said I’m sorry. I don’t understand why you’re still angry.”

“If you weren’t so bloody detached from your emotions like a normal person, you’d know that anger doesn’t disappear with a silly _I’m sorry_. There’s more to feelings than chemistry.” Molly picked the larger pieces of the cup out of the basin and tossed them in the bin. “You told Greg that – and I quote because he told me – I wasn’t _the_ one. I was _happy_ with him, but you messed that up. _Sherlock must be right_ … _he’s always right_. Neither of us could get past that. We couldn’t spend any time together without finding some fault – some little piece of evidence to support your stupid deduction. Then you have the gall to tell me _you love me_. And now you’re sitting here, telling me you want me to be happy? Bugger off.”

“Greg?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes! Greg Lestrade.” Molly crossed her arms over her chest.

“You and Lestrade deserve to be happy together. I was so very wrong, Molly,” Sherlock said.

“More often than you know,” said Molly


	2. Chapter 2

Greg leaned over, one gloved hand resting on the edge of the tub for support. “No broken bones? No signs of trauma?” He arched an eyebrow at the medical examiner.

“No, Sir,” he said.

“How’d he get in there?” Greg scrubbed his face with his other hand, forgetting that he was wearing a pair of gloves. The latex caught against his way-past-five-o-clock shadow as he stared at the body in the tub.

According to his ID, Ronald Adair, was 37 years of old, nearly 2 meters tall, and some 20 stones. Adair was curled up into fetal position inside of a large red duffel bag and then the duffel was sitting in his bathtub. The open flap of the bag made the scene look like something in medical text book. Like a giant uterus cut open with a baby inside of it, just without the blood.

Greg’s stomach did a flip flop. He’d figured he’d seen enough grizzly stuff that he would be immune to getting queasy, but something about this murder was _disturbing_. Maybe it was the contrast of the white tub with the red bag and the serene look on the stiff’s face.

How the hell had someone stuffed a large grown man into a large duffle bag without breaking bones or dismembering him?

Greg flexed his jaw. Bugger if he knew, but he knew who would.

“I think he put himself in there,” the ME said.

“Doesn’t explain the lock,” said Greg. The land lady had found Adaire’s body, sort of. She’d called pest control on account of the awful smell in the house and the pest control guy had called the police when he found the source. The responding officers had clipped a tiny luggage lock off the bag. Presently, the lock was somewhere between the bag and the tub. Greg made a mental note to remember to bag that for evidence when they could finally move the corpse.

“He had an accomplice?” The ME suggested.

“Maybe, but who gets into a position like that willingly and lets someone close them up?”

“Escape artists?”

Greg scoffed. “He won’t a very good one, was he, then?”

“Whatever, can I get the body out of here?” The ME asked.

“Not yet. Need to make a call first. Nobody touch anything.” He ordered.

Greg rung up Baker Street and hoped either Mrs. Hudson or John would pick up because Sherlock sure as hell never did.

“Hello?” John’s voice came on the line.

“John, it’s Greg. You busy?” He asked.

“Putting together Rosie’s new crib, actually. Sherlock’s not here.”

Greg swore under his breath. “Where’d he pop off to? Got a case for him.”

“Don’t know, said he had something to do. Why didn’t you call his mobile?” John grunted. There was a loud bang and the Doctor let out a slew of curse words.

“You know he doesn’t answer his phone.” Greg sighed.

“So text him.” There was another bang and more cursing.

“Take a break, John. Bring Sherlock here soon as you can.” He gave the address and hung up.

“Who’d you call?” The ME stood close behind Greg. He hadn’t noticed the guy sneaking up while he was on the phone.

“Need and expert on this,” Greg said.

The ME nodded, his expression turning into a petulant frown. “Might as well get some lunch. Want me to bring you back some chips or something?”

Greg glanced at the body still in the bathtub and his gut clenched. He coughed into his sleeve to hide the sudden wave of nausea. “I’m good thanks.”

“What are you going to do till he gets here?” Asked the ME.

“Wait.”


End file.
